Ours was not how most love stories start. Not with cuckoos singing and the spring breeze blowing fragrant petals on our faces or to be more realistic, not with stolen glances, secret smiles and covert phone calls in the middle of the night; instead, in a gloomy depressing place.
You had found the broken me -the scrap that time had made me into, way beyond the state of recycling. You took me in like a collector takes in, with cautious excitement a priceless antique piece. You dusted, mended and brought back my shine. You made me yours and worth much more than I ever thought I was.
I thought to thank you I would write you a love story.
(Since this world is clearly can no longer sustain a real one)
I wrote something grand and beautiful;
Something that the heart aches for and yet knows to be unreal.
With a lovelorn hero and his beloved,
With all the odds against them.
But all the odds are fought and all the demons slain.
And they make theirs a happily ever after.
You read, appreciated but insisted that we live it instead. So began our ‘Once upon a time…’.
Next, I thought I’d write you a love letter.
(Since the spoken word doesn’t always come out the 'write' way)
I wrote something out of the deepest corners of my heart.
It read beautifully and brought tears in my own eyes.
With poignant poetic words and noble intention promised,
The scented letter lay by your side as you slept.
You read, appreciated and carried on with your day. Disappointed and gloomy eyed, I went on with my day. It is only before I almost found myself asleep at night that I realised that you don’t write me letters you just simply make each day a new love letter for me.
Living our story,